Darkest Before the Dawn
by NameDay
Summary: A humble attempt at a Sansa/Sandor tale keeping characters in tact as much as possible. Dismayed and horrified by Sansa's choice to seek a savior in Ser Dontos, Sandor Clegane decides to assist in her escape himself.
1. Chapter 1

I've read a lot of SanSan, and while I don't claim to be an expert, I do find myself very irritated by how OOC or horribly melodramatic they all wind up. Here's my take on a story of this pairing. Hope it works out.

_Come to the Godswood tonight, if you want to go home._

She had been so certain it was a trap. And yet, Ser Dontos trembled, so humbly, and gave her such pretty words. Did she dare hope? Could this ruin of knight be the Florian she prayed for, for true? She lie on her bed, pondering. Ser Dontos's broken veins and soft skin spoke to her of age and weakness only, He was further crippled by his love of drink. The stinging of foolishness crept across her cheeks, and her heart fell. Why, of all knights or fools, was Ser Dontos her only true friend?

The city was not quiet below, but the cries of pain that embellished the wind only an hour before were fewer, farther between. Had the killing stopped? Sansa held her breath to listen, though she could hardly bare the sounds of death, but her ears instead found the sound of a trudging and unsteady gait. Sansa's breath did not return to her for a moment, as her head filled with visions of ghosts or wounded men, coming to find her, all with the eyes of Illyn Payne. Her doorknob shivered.

"Little Bird, open up." Sandor Clegane's voice was more sober than it was the last time she heard it. She exhaled in relief, only to find her fear of ghosts replaced by new ones. The trouble she must be in for him to summon her at this hour. Her only comfort was that Joff's voice, or any others, had yet to declare presence. She slipped a robe over her night clothes and granted him entry.

For a moment, he simply stood outside her door. His hair fell lank across the burned side of his face, his mouth set like stone and his shoulders tensed. He glared at her in a cold fury. His eyes, his frightening eyes, chilled her blood. He entered and spoke with a low urgency.

"You little fool. I believe you have a bird's mind for true. How could you have been so careless?" He had his hands on her upper arms, his face inches from hers, his back bent like an elbow to peer into her eyes. He plainly wanted to shout at her, but seemed to be fighting to keep his fury contained, a battle only made fiercer by the effects of the drink that still clouded him slightly. Sansa tried to back away. "I haven't any idea- I don't- I don't know what-" she tried to speak.

"Shut up, shut up!" he hissed. "Your feeble lies will do you no good, do you understand me? A stutter will only buy you time for so long before the king decides to silence you for good!"

Sansa felt her face twist in an effort not to cry. "What have you come here for, to terrify me?" She tried to sound strong, the way Arya might have said it.

"No, but you seem keen to terrify me, girl. Did the honorable Lord Stark never once teach you not to trust a drunk? Have you forgotten the king's name day? He could expose his cock to the king himself, you believe that Dontos will do better with your secrets? Your life?" the Hound shook her body in place of gesticulating his occupied hands. Tears slipped down her whitened cheeks. "Please ser, I haven't the faintest-" but she could not finish; Sansa lost her words to sobs.

The Hound's voice dropped lower, and while the fury remained, he revealed a hint of pity. "I may not be able to protect you always, when your tongue betrays you, but I try to spare you the worst of the king's wrath. I do more for you than Dontos could dream of." He released her. "You need a killer to survive an escape, and no 'ser' could do the job. You'd find Dontos fucked to death by a long sword the moment the Kingsguard or Watch caught wind of what he was trying, and you would be fucked to death by Joffrey and whatever men he tossed you out for. Believe that."

He sat on the edge of her bed and allowed his breath a moment to return to him. "I hadn't known you had the courage to escape." Sansa was too frightened to speak, she wordlessly shook her head as if to protest a fact she simultaneously admitted. His face fell into his hands, as though it were too pregnant with thoughts to stay up. Finally, he groaned in a half-whine and said almost loudly "Have it your way, girl, and leave tonight. But just allow ME to be your escort. I'd rather not have to see that pretty head of yours eaten by the birds before you could sing for me."

Sansa grasped for her senses. "How did you know?"

"About what, Dontos the fool? This castle has eyes everywhere; some that watch you are friendly, some are not. Not even your little garden is safe. Be grateful to those gods of yours that it was I who found you, so you could rehearse your lies before running into a less friendly knight." He seemed to snort in spite of himself. "You are a far worse liar to me than the others. But, a dog can smell a lie, as I told you."He looked up at her, his eyes lost some of their anger, but looked desperate to get moving. Forgetting her fear, she stared back. The Hound seemed to forget something as well.

"Are we going or not?"He barked finally.

"Can you be sure we won't be caught?" she asked breathlessly. She had prayed for a knight; the gods delivered a fool and a dog. She decided to place her trust in the latter. Sansa thought of Ser Donto's jiggling neck skin, somewhat like a rooster's. The thought was nearly comical when she looked at the Hound's neck. The muscles stood out like those on a skinned beast.

"No." He replied. "But I can be sure you won't be hurt." He brandished his sword, and his face was less fearsome when he wore that look of confidence, but Sansa was quiet. "I have a mind to leave. Never knew a little bird who forgot how to chirp. I'd have thought you would have done anything for another view of Winterfell."

That made Sansa's mind up. She had been abused in court, she had been treated like little more than a flea on a cat. Reckless abandon stole through her; if the Hound wished to harm me, could it truly be worse than this life I have come to know?

"We leave tonight." Sansa uttered the agreement. "My life is in your hands." He hadn't given her an oath, but she knew he wouldn't have. The Hound's lip twitched then unfolded into a wide smile.

"So the little bird isn't so craven as she seems."


	2. Chapter 2

The night was far from still. This was to their benefit; a flurry of distraction could provide them some concealment from the vigilant eyes of their foes. The Hound whispered inwardly an indistinct sound of gratitude to nothing in particular. He suddenly felt foolish; there were no gods to accept his thanks, no matter how comforting that would be during an endeavor such as this. To his left, a step behind, scurried the Stark girl, much more a little mouse at this moment than a little bird. She flung looks of fear over her shoulder every few moments and startled at every slight noise.

"Girl." He whispered in as commanding a tone he could while being so quiet. "You need to stop drawing attention to your fear. You might bloody well carry a red banner saying 'Look! I'm doing something I ought not to!' for how suspicious you look." He snorted. "Your sigil could be a mad little bird bursting through her cage." He chanced a look at her.

She was so pale with fear she gleamed in the clouded moonlight. Her hood pulled taut against her lovely hair, itself dressed so tightly against her scalp to keep the red flame of it hidden that her eyebrows rested higher than natural and her eyes wide. Perhaps that was her fear across her face, though. She flicked those eyes to his, and he could see the internal battle between confidence and terror raging inside her head. His heart flooded with a warmth. It often did when he saw her vulnerable. _She_ was often vulnerable. Even stricken, she was lovely.

He recalled the day Joff summoned him to her quarters, so soon after her beloved father lost his head on the steps of the Sept. She had drawn the hangings tight around her bed, hiding herself in the darkness like a wounded animal might seek a cave. Joff commanded him to wrench the poor creature, a vision of total despair, from her hide-away of blankets. The Hound had wanted nothing more than to hold her close and steal her away from her trap, her pain, her darkness. He remembered thinking Joff was cruel to disturb her while she was in such a state. Little did Sandor know how deep the king's cruelty would cut when Joff demanded she accompany him.

Believing maybe the sunlight outside would do the caged Little Bird some good, he was pleased to see Joff escort her out into the light...until the destination became clear. Until Joff made his Dog turn Ned Stark's head by the tarry hair to greet his beautiful, broken daughter. In one reckless moment, he wished to turn and slice Joff's head off and cram it on a spike too. Why he didn't then, he couldn't be certain. Perhaps it was then the Little Bird made to push the mad little king off of his perch and cleared Sandor's mind. He didn't stop her to protect Joffrey from what would be justice, but to protect her from inevitable death. She really wore her thoughts on her face far too often. Sandor knew all her next moves.

Like now. The fear was becoming too much for the Little Bird to bare, as if she only just realized what price she may have to pay for her escape attempt. Sansa had caught sight of Boros, farther down the castle yard beneath a stone archway, and fluidly spun to hide herself behind a pillar, sinking to the floor and panicking in silence. Her breathing began to grow louder, though, and Sandor couldn't allow that. _Should_ they be caught, Sandor needed no man to say Lady Sansa was panting and breathless in the middle of night with only the Hound for companionship. He cared not for the sorts of conclusions a testimony like _that_ might offer. He took to his knee and held her fairy-like wrists in his brutish hands.

"Little Bird, stop! Do you forget who I am?" He dared to laugh quietly, hoping it might impart in her a little bravery. He found laughter made painful moments somehow less so. "I am Sandor Clegane, butcher of men." He stood straight-backed, striking an impressive figure as he towered over her, like a solid shadow. "Ser Boros has lived his whole life to die in this courtyard tonight." He grinned down at her, finding himself pleased that he had astonished her. So much so, in fact, that she seemed to forget to be afraid of his face. "Wait here."

Sandor walked with confidence to Ser Boros, who turned to face him at the sound. The Hound twirled his sword casually like it were a toy and not an instrument of death. He nodded to Boros in silent greeting and feigned like he made to walk past the knight. He changed directions in an instant, and the sword entered Boros's uncovered throat before the man could even cry out in fear. Sandor pulled the steel out with a flourish to allow some of the blood to leave the blade. The dead man slumped to the ground a midst a cloud of dust. Sandor strode back to the hiding girl and pulled her up.

She eyed the blood still clinging to his sword. A veil seemed to fall over her face and her eyes burned for a moment. She was satisfied, pleased even, by the Hound's destruction of one of her enemies.

"Come," she said, her gait quickening, as she lead her champion past the body of his kill. "Maybe we'll run into Ser Ilyn Payne, too." She sounded, for the first time in his memory, hopeful, yet cool as a knife in northern snow.

The girl's hope was wasted. They not only missed Ser Payne, but avoided detection once, twice, thrice. Most of the knights they passed were busy attending to the aftermath of the peasants' fury. One was actually sleeping. The Hound and his charge strode on, finally reaching the stables where his horse slept. He slipped inside, and a moment later lead a monstrous black beast out into the night. He mounted it with ease and pulled the girl up in front of him. He kept Stranger at a quickened pace, but not so fast as to provoke suspicion. They rode wordlessly for a time. Buried behind the clatter of horse hooves, he could hear the deep breathing of his charge. Every intake of breath was like a deliberate meditation. She seemed to constantly steel herself against her own fear. He muttered into her ear.

"Has the Little Bird unfolded her wings yet? We are very near to your freedom, now."

He laughed, feeling excitement bubbling in him as well. "Can you imagine the fit his grace will throw now that you are no longer his to torture? Stamping his foot like a child crying for sweets! All the while you'll be flying out of his grasp, out of the empty courtesies of courts, the trained responses, the chirping...Free to be Sansa Stark again, not Lannister captive." He felt her slowly ease forward on the steed as he spoke, as if to tumble into her freedom. She whispered with longing the name of her home. The Hound laughed like a bark again, and pulled her back by the waist. "The Little Bird is impatient, isn't she?"

He left his arm around her waist and leaned the good side of his face against her cheek. She smelled intoxicating in his mounting glee; he was rescuing her, the maiden fair, like a knight in all those stupid little songs she so loved. She had even dared meet his gaze, this time free of the look that she was f_orcing herself_ to, because it was what a _true lady_ would do. He spoke again as he raised a pointing finger ahead of them. "There, Little Bird, is our escape." The road behind them stretched the span of all the crumbling streets that surrounded the castle. They had passed hovel after stinking,derelict hovel, some blackened by fire or damaged by mob. But the buildings were all falling away into the darkness behind the riders. The road before them was quickly coming to an end before disappearing into the kingswood. A gate was all that stood between what the Hound smuggled and her future.

A voice beside the gate shouted suddenly. "Oi! You!" The man stopped when Sandor came into full view, his white cloak bright. Fighting to keep from sounding scared, the City Watchman said "What's your business then, ser?"

The Hound clenched his hand against Sansa for a moment. "I ain't a ser, lad."

"Whatchu got a knight's cloak for, eh?" the wirey youth peered up suspiciously through a mop of blond hair and thick eyebrows. He leered at Sansa. "What are you taking a girl into the woods for?" Sandor slipped fingers around the hilt of his sword.

Another man, bearing a torch, hobbled forward from the other side of the gate. "Quiet, Olen." He turned toward the Hound. "I know the King's dog when I see him, even if green boys like he don't." The older man peered at Sansa, his face orange in the torch light. "She's a pretty one. One of Littlefinger's?" The question was casual, but Sandor could see the man struggling to place where before he'd seen the lovely girl's face. The Hound knew too well that her's was a beauty hard to forget.

He felt no need to allow the man time to gather his recollections. The Hound thought on his feet. He brought the hand already around her waist up to her shoulder so that his arm laid between her breasts, and pulled her roughly on his lap. He laughed as though he'd been drinking and growled, lips against her creamy white neck and enjoying himself immensely. "Sounds like the gatemaster would like to get to know you better, Girlie. " He lifted his head towards the man, and said with bravado "You'll have to wait your turn! This one thrills when fucking out among the forest beasts, in the dirt and leaves!" He looked down at her to find her looking shocked at his words. He pinched her collarbone. She forced a pathetic, tapering giggle, clawing the Hound with her long nails in warning. Stupid Little Bird, did she not realize this act could make the difference between keeping her head joined to her body or rolling down the Sept's steps?

"How old are you, sweetling?" The young man asked this time. "Ten-and-five, m'lord." She spoke the lie like one of the kitchen wenches, playing the whore part much better this time. "Like whatchu see?" She giggled. He nodded much too eagerly, rendered breathless.

Sandor marveled at her, noting that the fear he detected in her voice was probably only discernible to one who spoke with Sansa often. The gate guards didn't seem to take much note at least, as they took in his Little Bird's body, clearly hoping to meet her again in a brothel one day. Sandor laughed aloud again, this time wondering how much a woman like Sansa could fetch in a brothel, and knowing that whatever the price would be, these two fools could never afford it. He held his head arrogantly, like he truly was going to bed this princess bathed in moonlight through the forest trees. That tonight she belonged to him. After all, she _was_ on his lap, wasn't she? He could be contented by that thought, no matter how superior the other was.

They soon pulled the gate open, and Sandor kicked Stranger hard, launching the horse out of the cage of King's Landing and into the trees of the kingswood. Still on his lap, he felt the Little Bird's body stretch forward again, as if Stranger would suddenly take flight if Sansa willed it hard enough. She even spread her arms like wings. With each yard away from her prison, her elation grew. Her bottom slowly left his lap as her knees gripped the horse tighter. She slid her body unknowingly up against the arm that still held her between her breasts, straightening her back. She was nearly standing up on the galloping black horse, and just as Sandor made to pull her down, she let out a shimmering, tinkling laugh of pure bliss, of victory, her arms extending into the sky. Her hood flapped pointlessly in the wind, obscuring the Hound's vision for moments, but he trust in Stranger to know the way. She pulled the ribbon from her hair and Sandor was lost in the silken strands. Once or twice he felt a raindrop, before realizing tears flowed off her cheeks into the wind. She threw her neck back, her head landing on his right shoulder, and neither realizing or caring that his ear was directly beside her mouth, she released a cry of joy, of relief, into the stars. For a moment he imagined her cumming in a bed, her ass against his stomach and her back to his chest, but he quickly banished the thought. _This_ cry was not one of passion. It was the truest sound of triumph.


End file.
